


Never Enough

by Eileniessa



Series: My Witcher Universe [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eileniessa/pseuds/Eileniessa
Summary: "I don't want your thanks, Geralt, I don't need it. All that I've asked for, is your honesty. Why, Geralt?" He would have preferred it if she'd shouted. Anything would be better than hearing her so...broken. When Yennefer stood up he tensed, as though fearing she might shatter. She made an indistinguishable sound. "I'll never be enough for you." In a heartbeat, she was gone.





	Never Enough

**Disclaimer**

This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the books by Andrzej Sapkowski and the game series by CD Projekt Red. I do not claim ownership to any of these characters and have written this fan fiction for entertainment, not financial gain.

* * *

**Prompt** : Yennas (Tumblr): hello, you should do 2 for the prompt thing maybe

Send me a ship and one of these and I'll write a mini fic.

(2) things you said through your teeth

* * *

**Quote** : "When you stop expecting people to be perfect, you can like them for who they are."

― Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life

* * *

The sun was relentless in its attack, piercing through his heavy eyelids determinately. The assault on his sensitive eyes stirred his body and his consciousness prowled out from the darkness. Slowly, it reclaimed control of its mutated vessel, muscles awakening from their hazy slumber. Geralt's eyes twitched beneath their shutters, his sight held prisoner. Ages passed before they were released, and with labored movements, his eyes opened.

Even with the curtains drawn, sunlight spread across the bedroom floor and crawled up the walls and furniture. He gazed up at the smooth, white ceiling, the surface blinding him with a dazzling light. Unnatural heat trailed behind it, making him feel uncomfortable in his wet, sticky skin. Geralt tried to brush off the blanket covering his body, desperate to escape from the heat, his fingers rubbing against the soaked material. It was rough to touch and lay heavily against his body, constricting his chest and arms painfully. The Witcher sighed and furrowed his brow, he knew it was stupid to become agitated by such a small inconvenience, but he didn't care. He felt like being intolerable today.

He turned away from the mesmerizing light, squinting at the blurry shapes that moved around him, mist floating in glass statues. As the smoke began to settle, the objects gained new dimensions and intricate details replaced harsh lines and edges. The canvas came to life before him, a picture of a happy ending too good to be true, yet...one so familiar to him.

Geralt's arms felt like stone as he placed his palms flat against the bed, his coarse fingers catching on the soft mattress covering. The muscles in his stomach tightened as his back lifted. His head was enveloped by the pillow as the Witcher fell back, pain bursting across his chest as though his lungs and heart had simultaneously exploded. He shouted and screwed up his eyes, jagged nails clawing at the bedding. Flashes of three metallic teeth filled the darkness. Smoke and screams. Tears. His heart pounded ferociously against his rib-cage. Agony bored into every muscle and bone in his chest, and then it stopped. Dulled to nothing more than a warm sensation one feels after a hot meal.

He gasped for air, sputtering like a beached drowner. His body was shaking, small vibrations rippling through the bed. Geralt's arm twitched like a dead snake as he tried to move it and his throat constricted. Sweat rolled down his face dripping off his chin and getting into his eyes.

 _Geralt_.

At first, he thought he'd imagined it, thinking that his deluded mind was weaving a chimerical reality around him, turning the gentle wind into her enthralling voice. It was so soft and quiet, a quality he'd scarcely ever heard in her voice before, and it cut into him like a knife. With no pain to dominate his senses, he knew it was real. His heart shriveled.

The pain washed out of the Witcher's face as he relaxed his facial muscles. Her hand was placed tenderly on his chest when he opened his eyes, fingers spread wide and pressed lightly over the blood and sweat soaked bandage encasing his torso. Wisps of feathery azure light drifted through her fingers and floated along his chest like fragile seeds, planting themselves on his body before dying away. Her slightly elevated palm was glowing intensely and he could see the bones sticking up through the skin on the back of her small hand which was shuddering infinitesimally.

"Yen..." Geralt croaked, but there was no reply. His breath caught in his throat, the Witcher looked up.

Her hair shimmered with the light of a thousand stars, the luminous spell reflecting off her pale and flawless skin and casting her figure into ethereality. Only a sliver of her face had been revealed to his eager eyes, a veil of wild hair shielding her. For minutes he gazed upon her, but not once did her eyes follow him. It felt as though there were a million miles between them.

Strands of Yennefer's hair tickled his exposed skin as she leaned over him, bare knees touching the edge of their bed. Cautiously, Geralt's hand inched down the sheets. He could feel the indentation in the mattress and gently covered her free hand with his own. The bedding rose slightly. Her skin was cold to touch despite the heat of the morning, and he brushed his thumb against it. Yennefer sighed under her breath, but the sound was promptly cut off. Their hands came apart, then, she pulled away completely, her light fading. He remained motionless as she glided away, heavy silence pressing against his shoulders. Yennefer's huddled shadow stretched across the bed, arms withdrawn and her face a mystery. Geralt was too afraid to speak. He knew what the next few moments could cost him, and the odds were set against him. The atmosphere remained undisturbed for what felt like a lifetime.

"What were you thinking?" sharp words cleaved through the tension.

Geralt was caught off guard, her question filtering through his mind before he'd had a chance to think. "I...Yen-"

Her hair writhed like snakes as she whirled around to face him. "Answer me!"

Any man with an ounce of common sense would cower under the Sorceress' intense glare, just as Geralt did. One look at her narrowed violet eyes and quivering lips was all the Witcher needed to measure the intensity of her words. He'd witnessed the boundless fury that was contained within her, but never before had he looked it straight in the eye. Static pricked at his skin and he felt as though her stare was suffocating him. To deny her was a death sentence, but Geralt had no answer to give. And she knew it.

Yennefer laughed down at him, coldness edged into her tone, cruelly twisting the voice he adored. "Poor Witcher, so inward looking that he doesn't understand what he's done. How foolish of me to think otherwise."

Geralt couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so hopeless. He'd wandered into the middle of a nightmare, stranded in an unfamiliar setting where he couldn't tell the sun from the moon. The memory of her body curled up against him was imprinted on his skin, lilac and gooseberries lingering from her touch. The look on her face when they'd kissed goodbye, how could it have turned into this? Maybe he was still dreaming.

"Yen, please..." he begged, feebly. Geralt knew it was pathetic, but he hoped it could buy some time. He'd weather her fury if it provided even the smallest chance for him to see into the eye of the storm. In there, he'd see what she was trying to hide.

The Witcher's hair stood on end as Yennefer's pendant pulsed violently, shaking against her neck. "Don't you dare plead, Witcher - pathetic! You shan't find any sympathy here, mark my words," she hissed.

Geralt shrunk into the bed pressed down by her intense stare. It felt as though she was staring straight down into his soul, assessing what he could not. When she turned away, he felt it tare. The thought of what he might have done plagued his sanity and mercilessly conjured unspeakable images before him. Raised voices between them was an occasion not out of the ordinary, but what was happening now felt surreal. It was as though he had woken up in the middle of a storm, with no memory of seeing it approach and no idea of when it might pass. Or if it would.

The unpredictability of this particular storm left the Witcher stunned. He was watching a phenomenon, his scraps of knowledge inadequate to provide him with a realistic chance of comprehending it. Yennefer remained silent, only the slight rise and fall of her shoulders informing him that the world was still moving. The sleeves of her dressing gown were bundled up above her elbows, the gown tight under her arms as thin hands tightly clutched the material. On the ground her shadow danced, shivering in the warm breeze.

Shocks of heat brushed across his chest when he gradually slid his legs over the edge of the bed and raised his upper body. The carpet absorbed the sound of his feet hitting the floor, the fabric springing between his toes like blades of grass. Geralt gripped the side of the bed to steady himself, dizziness confusing his senses. His knuckles whitened when he saw bandages snaking down his legs. Gingerly, he tested his heavily wrapped foot, gradually applying pressure. It burned like coal, but the pain was bearable. Gritting his teeth, Geralt stood and without warning the intensity increased tenfold.

With his eyes screwed shut, the Witcher would never know how Yennefer caught him before he hit the ground. His left leg buckled under the pain and he fell against her body. Arms wrapped around his torso, she managed to impede his decent so that his knee only gently touched the ground. However, the minor impact still made him grunt as pain shot up his leg like a streak of fire, burning his nerves. Yennefer cursed in his ear. One of her arms slid to his waist as she nestled against his side, bearing some of his weight on her shoulders. Geralt felt her shaking under the burden as she helped him to his feet. He tried to take as much of his weight as possible, but kept leaning against her, instinctively recoiling from the pain. The seconds it took to reach the bed were agonizingly slow, Yennefer's stifled moans resonating in his hears.

Sweat gleamed on her face when she withdrew her arms, chest unsteadily rising and falling. She sat down at the end of the bed, fingers skating over his foot. There was a crimson rose was sprouting there, growing across the bandage and puncturing his legs with thorns. The Sorceress closed her hands around the wound and furrowed her brow. Her hair rippled as there was a blinding flash that left spots in front of Geralt's eyes and the pain receded to a dull throb. Quickly, he looked up, but her head was already turned away, a hand raised to her face.

There was stifling silence. Geralt wished for something, anything, to break the tension. When had he last felt so lost in her presence? "Thank you, Yen," he said quietly. At once, he realised he'd made a fatal error.

"I don't want your thanks, Geralt, I don't need it. All that I've asked for, is your honesty. Why, Geralt?" He would have preferred it if she'd shouted. Anything would be better than hearing her so...broken. When Yennefer stood up he tensed, as though fearing she might shatter. She made an indistinguishable sound. "I'll never be enough for you." In a heartbeat, she was gone.

* * *

The room chilled as the door swung shut. Her heartbeat echoed through the walls as she drifted away, ghostly pale light filling the empty armchair beside their bed. Small indentations still marked the cushions, and a blanket was draped over one of the wooden arms, pooling onto the floor. Geralt wondered how long Yennefer had been sitting there. Dark circles hung under her eyes when he saw her face up-close. He hadn't seen them there in a long time, so why had they reappeared? How badly had he messed up?

A single, curled strand of her hair was caught within a crack in the wood. Delicately, he plucked it free. It coiled on his palm and twisted around his fingers as he held it. He admired how it retained its vivid colour, and not withered like a dying rose. Geralt closed his hand around it. The life had drained from her body as she looked at him, a husk staring through her dull eyes. It reminded him of Avalon; the look he saw in her eyes as their life burned to the ground, it was the same.

Geralt rested his head on his shaking fists. Hoofs clattered outside the balcony, he didn't need any inhuman senses to know that Yennefer had fled. Corvo Bianco was too small for the both of them, passing through the gates was the only way to ensure that she escaped him. What darkness had she seen in his soul that forced her to leave... Yennefer had barely been able to look at him...had she seen a monster inside him?

Geralt wished for the pain to return, something to distract him from the torment of what he might have done. He tried to think, blocking out the eerie silence as he went back in time. A contract, the beginning scene. Hand delivered to him on the steps of Corvo Bianco. Coronata Vineyard, located on the east side of the Sansretour river, needed a professional. Archespores were rapidly spreading across their fields, and hundreds of workers were at risk while several had already succumb to their presence. The Witcher had accepted without hesitation, out of professional and personal interest. Corvo Bianco was not far from the infestation and Geralt has heard several incidents that indicated Archespore bulbs could find their way across running water. Yennefer often used to walk the vineyards...

He took a day to prepare, practicing his combat by day and brewing potions and oils by night. Early the next morning, the shroud of night still cloaking the light of the sun, Geralt rose from the bed. He'd been more than a little surprised when someone grabbed his hand, and Yennefer pulled him down on top of her. She threatened him with the consequences of not returning within two days and sent him away with a kiss.

The ride was short and pleasant, the heat of the day tempered by the receding darkness. Several workers greeted him by Coronata's gates and hurried him to the main house. A few words were exchanged before the Witcher unsheathed his silver blade and disappeared into the vineyards. The darkness had vanished now and shadows painted the earth. As the sun roasted his leather armour, Geralt set to work. By midday, most of the land had been cleared and workers were returning to the fields to clean up the Witcher's mess. Everything had gone smoothly, he was tired, yes, but the small cuts and burns on his arms were already beginning to heal. But fate was a cruel Mistress.

Geralt headed deeper into the vines, following the Archespores' destruction as he neared the birthplace of the infestation. Within minutes, thick stems wept on the earth, foul-smelling ooze snaking amongst the vines. The Witcher wiped his blade on an Archespore leaf, crinkling his nose at the pungent odor. Prominent veins throbbed in his arms, potions mixing with his mutated blood, storing the pain of battle for another time. Sweat dripping from his brow, Geralt steadily made his way back through the vineyards, but he was stopped after several steps.

The Witcher's instinct saved him by the skin of his teeth. Reverberations shot up his legs as an Archespore sprang from the earth, striking with its maw before its stalk had fully surfaced. The attack was too quick for a human mind to process, but in combat, a Witcher doesn't need to think. The creature screeched as its maw collided with Geralt's shield which shattered and fizzled away. The Witcher's eyes narrowed. This Archespore was different, black vines clutched its stem and its leaves were tinted obsidian. He'd never faced such a creature alone, and even with Eskel by his side, their battle was still evident on his skin. This contract had just become unexpectedly harder. Now, there was more at stake and the odds had been tipped against him. And that was where the story ended. Hours, days, or even weeks ago. But even with the story told, Geralt was no closer to understanding it.

How had that contract landed him here? Life at Corvo Bianco, domesticity with Yennefer, It was beyond perfect and beyond what he dreamed was possible. They'd defied everything to get here, to forge a favorable destiny. Geralt doubted he'd ever return to the path, now that he was here, well, there was just no going back. But as happy as he was, old habits die hard. He had to learn how to live a normal life, to abandon the extraordinary for the mundane, they both did, and it was going to take years of practice. Until that day arrived, Geralt would cling to what was familiar. Once in a blue moon, he'd take out his silver sword, and Yennefer had never tried to stop him. No words were exchanged between them, it wasn't necessary. Geralt knew she would prefer never to see his Witcher gear again, and he too hoped that day would come, but she possessed unappreciated patience. Yennefer would give him time. She understood.

And that's why none of this made any sense.

* * *

Geralt rested in bed for hours. Weighed down by Yennefer's words, he couldn't muster the strength to rise, despite how painful it was to sit there alone. A strand of raven hair was still twisted around his fingers, his skin paling where it dug into his flesh. The dull pain reminded him that this was a living nightmare. His body ached as the magic began to thin and it demanded him to rest, but the thought was unbearable, preposterous even. How could he sleep now... Yennefer was out there, somewhere, and she was in immeasurable pain.

Shoulders stooped and uneven, neck curved as her head sank, body trembling and her voice no more than a whisper as she spoke;  _I'll never be enough for you_... The demon had returned, and the desire to reach out and hold her, never to let go again, consumed him. Acceptance, a concept that united them as much as it pushed them apart. Geralt thought that they'd finally come to terms with it, but perhaps he'd been wrong.

When he was with Yennefer and Ciri, the Witcher forgot who he was. They had touched his life like angels, curing his petrified heart. Their love gave him life, and their presence taught him that a Witcher's heart can beat for another. He had learned to accept that he could feel more than the monster he was created to be, just as he thought Yennefer had come to accept that she was loved. That she had a family of their own making.

Just outside the bedroom door hung a painting. To the unknowing eye, there was nothing special about it. It was a fine piece of art, a family, a happy family, together amongst luscious vines. Yet, a picture can paint a thousand words and this one depicted a tale. A story so outrageous and unbelievable that one knew it had to be true, for the mind could not conceive of such fantasy. It was not just a painting of any old family and of any wild tale, but a commendation of his life and the two most important pieces of it. The canvas outside his door reminded Geralt that everything he'd ever suffered had been worth it. His family had found peace. But not all their demons had gone.

Doubt had wormed its way back into their life. Even with the certainty that magic was not what bound them together, Geralt feared that Yennefer had yet to accept its replacement. Was he to blame? Could he have become blinded by an illusion of tranquility, neither seeing nor sensing the attention that Yennefer would never demand of him nor acknowledge that she needed. Had he ever told her how much he loved her... Did she not know...  _Why, Geralt_? could she think this whole life was a lie?

There were footsteps on the stairs and across the landing. A tray appeared in the doorway, steam rising from the polished wood and a long trail of cloth hanging beneath it. Geralt sighed, he knew it was too good to be true.

"It's good to see you awake, Master Geralt. You've had us all rather worried," said Marlene. The frail old woman padded across the room, withered hands lowering the breakfast tray onto the bed.

Geralt's mouth watered, his stomach growling with unexpected anticipation. He was famished. "Thank you, Marlene," he said, gouging his eyes on the bountiful food. Hunks of cheese, crusty bread and a thick bowl of soup that was unmistakably the cooks most famous and well-guarded recipe.

She smiled at him, it reminded Geralt of Nenneke. "I'm glad to help sir, more than I can say."

Marlene pottered around the room as he ate, opening the curtains and placing a pitcher of water on the bedside table, ice bobbing on the surface. Without being prompted, she explained what had transpired since his last memory of the vineyard. When the Witcher had not returned to collect his prize, the Lord sent his workers into the field to search for Toussaint's hero. Following the trail of destruction and the pungent smell of rotten fruit and some indescribable stench, several men found him collapsed on the ground. His body was coated from head to toe in thick, viscous fluid which was stained in place by patches of blood. Horses trampled some of the surviving vines as Geralt's body was raised into the back of a cart and wheeled off to Corvo Bianco as fast as the workers would dare to go. They wiped away the slimy cocoon around him and pressed wet cloth against his bleeding wounds while praying to the Gods for a safe journey.

The Witcher's face had been as pale as a corpse when the wagon rolled through Corvo Bianco's gates. Marlene had watched from the doorway as Yennefer ran across the courtyard. She coated her dress in blood and sweat as she leaned over him, pressing her hands over his heart. A minute passed in mournful silence as the Sorceress knelt beside him in the wagon, her eyes closed and her hands trembling. The men stood like sentinels around her, and when she pulled away they came to life. They followed the Mistress into the house, carrying Geralt on their shoulders. Several stayed in the room with her as she tended to the Witcher and hours passed before the door opened.

His wounds clean and bandaged, the men helped moved the Witcher upstairs and watched anxiously as Yennefer followed them, her skin pale as snow and her movements slow and heavy. After they had thanked the men, Marlene and Basil carefully entered the bedroom and saw Yennefer collapsed in a chair, asleep. They stayed until she woke late in the afternoon, and nothing that either of them could say or do could part her from Geralt's side. Over the past three days they brought her food and drinks, the former of which she barely touched, and not once in that time did they find her asleep again. While Geralt wandered, lost, in the dark confines of his mind, Yennefer kept vigil.

But the second he was awake...she had gone, relieved of her duties. Yennefer had weathered out the worst of the storm and fled at the sight of first light, leaving him alone and confused, stranded in unfamiliar water. When Marlene finished changing the sheets, despite Geralt's assurance that she needn't trouble herself, she wandered off downstairs. The Witcher stared at his distorted reflection in the soup spoon hovering over the almost empty bowl. Even with the missing days in hand, he still couldn't finish the puzzle. Either he was being stupid or there was something else he needed to find. Geralt slowly scraped the bottom of the bowl, tilting it to one side to gather that last few spoonfuls. He thought about sending a letter to Ciri, the stables housed a handful of magical kestrels, courtesy of Yennefer, that could deliver it to Vizima within days, but decided against it. He wasn't sure that it would be wise to involve her, Geralt knew that Yennefer strongly disliked having Ciri in the crossfire, or anywhere near it, and there was no room for mistakes. He'd have to figure this out by himself if he stood any chance of fixing things with Yennefer when - if - she returned.

The Witcher had just finished the last of the soup when Marlene returned and placed several bottles on the bed. His potions. "Marlene, where did you get these?" he asked, picking up the smallest bottle; swallow.

"Lady Yennefer gave them to me before she left," the cook replied over her shoulder.

Geralt furrowed his brow, staring at Marlene' back as she watered the flowers that sat upon Yennefer's vanity. The vase they rested in had cost him a fortune, but it was a purchase he couldn't afford to pass up. Black smoke was encased within the glass, creating swirling patterns that crept up the sides and clouded the vase's transparency. It was one of the first things Geralt had personally brought to place inside his new home, and of course, there was only one flower he could allow to reside in it. Yennefer had enchanted the lilacs he gifted her, blessing them with longevity and adding a touch of bitterness to their scent. It was as though a piece of her always lingered in the room, her life force bound to the flower she had immortalized. Today the lilacs seemed dulled in colour, flowers hanging low over the edge of the vase, their stems too weak to carry the burden. Geralt didn't know what he'd do if they wilted, or if so much as a petal fell loose.

"She'll come back, sir." Geralt looked down at his hands, ashamed to be the source of Marlene's sympathy; it was hard to believe that he deserved it.

When monsters prey on the innocent, paving the cobblestone red, one cannot blame the weapon for causing the killing blow, nor the hand that caused it. The culprit lies out of sight, in the hearts and heads of men. The bird holds no grudges against the mouse, but instinct, a phenomenon born of nature, drives it to kill. It does not think upon its right to kill nor feels that the mouse deserves to die. But in men, there lies a sense of entitlement. When a bandit slices the throat of a weary traveler or smacks his wife across the face, it is not instinct that guides his hand, but the thought that he has the right to do so, and the feeling that they deserve it. Geralt had seen the consequences of his actions but he cared not how it had come to pass. All he feared to know, was why.

The Witcher didn't reply. He couldn't bring himself to voice his disagreement, nor would he have been able to find the words to do so. Besides, surely she had seen what he'd done.

"Please, Master Geralt, listen to me." He obeyed almost instinctively, understanding the demand without thought. Curiosity and surprise managed to surface in his consciousness. In the months she had been here, he could not once remember Marlene demanding anything of him. While he knew she was of noble birth, it seemed out of character to hear her do so now.

Geralt nodded for her to continue and Marlene moved closer to the bed. "I know not why Lady Yennefer left, but she will return and you cannot believe otherwise. However angry or upset she was, it didn't stop her from thinking of you first."

* * *

Geralt lost count of how many days had passed since Yennefer had departed on heated words. His existence had become barren, deprived of any desirable meaning as each long and agonizing day was consumed by his body's primitive needs. Minutes stretched into hours, and hours washed into days until he neither knew nor cared for the movement of the calendar. The Witcher had almost forgotten about this lonely pastime, the emptiness that arose within him during times of painful rest filled by the presence of family and friends. Marlene and Basil visited when they could, but it simply wasn't the same. He enjoyed their company and was appreciative of their friendship and selflessness, but he could not lose himself in their idle chit-chat and remained bound to his frustration and pain. Perhaps he'd taken those close to him for granted, but he hoped it wasn't too late to make amends.

When he wasn't sleeping or moping in bed, Geralt sat on the balcony outside their bedroom window under the shade, unable to bear the heat that stuck under his bandage when in direct sunlight. He looked out over the vineyard, pointlessly watching for any signs of her return, be that a letter, a messenger, or the real thing itself. But nothing came, not a word.

Over time, sketching and reading began to fail in their duties and 'what ifs' crawled through his defenses. He began to have nightmares about the ways things ended... Glistening eyes and tightly pressed lips. It was worse than seeing her angry, something unspeakable, and to think that he was the cause...incomprehensible. The face she had worn that night was one that Geralt rarely saw and he was eternally grateful for that. Gone were Yennefer's refined emotions, replaced instead by a crude form that had passed through her body untouched by ingrained habits and insecurities. Her mask had slid from her face completely, revealing something he sorrowfully recognized. A punctured heart.

An image of crimson blossoms sprouting on black and white cloth and circling around a withering lilac rose into the Witcher's mind. It was a sight he could not banish, his third eye fixated on the spectacle. Whatever blow he'd struck would take a long time to heal though he was doubtful it ever would. They'd have yet another scar marring their relationship, perhaps one too many this time. His thoughts lured into dangerous territory, Geralt carefully got out of bed and hobbled to an armchair by the balcony. His swords and crossbow were resting atop a wooden table beside him and he reached for whichever was closest, not bothering to look. Picking up a ragged piece of cloth that was draped over the chair, the Witcher looked down at his trusty companion and began its pointless maintenance. Scrupulously, he triple checked the ranged weapon's mechanisms, wishing he had some oil at hand. For hours he rubbed the wood gently, removing imaginary splinters on every inch of the crossbow. Geralt stopped only when the excessive friction began to warm his hands.

Sighing, he moved onto the finishing step, the cloth passing easily over the metallic badge as his fingers traced the familiar coat of Rivia. He'd not seen Queen Meve since the bizarre series of events that resulted in his knighthood after the battle for the Bridge on the Yaruga, nor had he been to the city since the riot. His memories of the event were hazy and confused and he remembered almost nothing after he finally met his fate at the end of three pointy teeth. To him, it felt like a story from another life, but he knew Yennefer still dreamt about it and more than once he'd been awoken by the sound of his name being screamed into the night. They were nights he wished to forget, Geralt couldn't imagine what it would be like to watch Yennefer slowly die...

He froze, his fingers pressed against the cool metal badge. Had his hands not been preoccupied, he would have dropped his head in them. How could he have been so blind?

* * *

Several more nameless days passed, each one more dull and exhausting than before. The Witcher was tired of sitting around and being able to do nothing besides wait and worry, but he knew it was a torment he had to endure. Caught again in the clutches of restless slumber, Geralt wandered through Corvo Bianco's garden, admiring the moonlit haven. He'd never seen flowers as vivid and ornate as those that graced Toussaint's soil. So used to the view of staggering mountains and thick woodland, it had taken him some time to truly appreciate this new form of beauty, and all its shapes and colours.

He moved to the center of the garden and under the wooden canopy that was burden with trails and trails of vines and creeping flowers. It was one of Yennefer's favourite places to sit, a shaded harborage from which one could gaze upon the garden and absorb all the colour it presented. Tonight, however, the Witcher could not bask in its intensity. He sat down heavily on the bench, sticking to the left side, his unspoken position when they were here together. As they sat side by side, arms brushing, Geralt could hardly keep his eyes off her. The sight of her fair skin, raven hair and very particular colour choice always made him smile when they were in this place. It was such a strange and wonderful contrast, Yennefer sitting amongst a rainbow of flowers. Leaning forward in his seat, hanging his head, Geralt held the image in his mind. After a long time, he began to smell lilac and gooseberries. He tensed when a heartbeat followed.

He didn't move a muscle, afraid that even the slightest movement might startle her and scare her away. Geralt waited with a patience he hadn't known he possessed, the sound of her heart was steady now, he knew she was watching him. Her smell was intoxicating, tickling his senses as she held back, torturing him for an age until the scent became stronger, completely engulfing him.

Yennefer's heels went silent as she slid onto the bench, hugging the right side as an invisible force separated them. Even now, with her heat sending shivers up his spine, the gap between them felt unbreachable. Minutes passed before Geralt finally gave into temptation and indulged his eyes. Carefully, he turned his head and rolled his eyes to look upon her face, or that which was not hidden from him. Small pulses of violet light illuminated her skin as she rubbed her star pendant, a sign that made Geralt's heart race. He couldn't bear to wait another second.

"You were right, Yen...I was selfish... It should never have taken me so long to understand." Yennefer's fingers stilled, the diamonds fading so that only his unnatural vision allowed him to watch her. Her hands were curled over the edge of the bench, gripping the wood like a roosting bird, anchoring her. He hoped that the breeze would not carry her fragile body away so soon. "Yen, I'm sorry..." slowly his hand stalked closer as he whispered into the silence. With precise movements, he closed the gap between them and gently touched her hand. However small the gesture was, he took it as a good sign when Yennefer didn't pull away. Until he realized she hadn't reacted at all.

With a single touch he'd petrified her, too repulsive a creation to even dream about being by her side. For the first time since he'd woken up to this nightmare, Geralt thought this might all be for the best. Perhaps his mistake had proven that he couldn't give Yennefer what she wanted - what she needed - even if he spent a lifetime trying. The Witcher closed his eyes and pictured the mesmerizing smile she'd greeted him with at the beginning of their new life. At least he still had Ciri... Geralt started to draw his hand away.

When he opened his eyes she was staring at him, her face fully turned towards him. Geralt held his breath. Dark circles still hung beneath her eyes and he wondered guiltily whether she'd slept at all since they last saw each other. He knew the Sorceress had other methods to sustain herself, however damaging they had proved to be in the past. Yennefer said nothing as their eyes locked and the night passed undisturbed. They'd spent hours together before, with no words shared between, but this was not the comfortable silence he'd grown to love. Now it felt only like a void between them, filling him with a sense of dread that the silence remained because neither had a worthwhile thing to say, or ever would again.

The Witcher had spent a lifetime staring down death, refusing to give into its hypnotic gaze, but even the master of his morality could not hold as much power in his eyes as the woman sitting on the bench beside him. Geralt felt trapped within their swirling depths as his soul was pulled from his chest. Despite the danger he knew they contained he never wanted to look away, and lay helplessly before her. His poor soul was so transfixed that his body had gone almost completely numb. He didn't know how long Yennefer had been holding his hand and he was too scared to look down in case his own body was playing tricks on him.

"Geralt..." he felt a slight pressure being applied to his fingers and without his conscious consent, his thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. Perhaps this was real after all, though when she gave a small ghost of a smile it seemed too good to be true. Yennefer looked down just for a second. "Geralt...I'm sorry."

The Witcher almost pinched himself. He'd lost count of how often this scenario had played out in his head, and not once had it ever included those words coming from her mouth. A solution to his problems had just been placed at his feet, ready for the taking. But despite what was on the line, it was an offer Geralt knew he couldn't take.

"Don't be, Yen, I don't deserve it. You were right, I'm the one who needs to apologise."

Yennefer was shaking her head before he'd finished speaking, stars dancing amongst her thick curls as the moonlight graced their meeting. "No Geralt, I overreacted and left you alone when you needed me. If our roles were reversed, you would have stayed."

He felt his heart plummet when she looked away, turning her head to the side. Yennefer's pendant began to glow, the magic seeping through her thin fingers as she held it with her free hand. Geralt felt once again that he was looking at a shadow, the same specter that had haunted him when Yennefer's anger had been spent and her mask slipped. All that remained, was the vulnerability.

The Witcher slid across the bench and lifted Yennefer's hand, placing it against his chest and holding it there. "I wouldn't still be here if you'd left me, Yen," he said quietly, speaking only when Yennefer finally raised up her head. "I know you watched over me until..." he hesitated. The words hanging on the tip of his tongue could be dangerous. It would probably only add to his problems, to hers too, but damn it. It needed to be said. "...Until you needed me more than I needed you." Yennefer tensed, her hand going stiff in his grip. Her eyelids flickered and Geralt couldn't tell if he'd struck a nerve with her or signed his own death sentence. He kept going before either of them had a chance to decide.

"When the Wild Hunt came to Kaer Morhen, you risked your life for Ciri, and when I saw you fall..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "I thought about how many times I'd put you through that. How many time I hadn't thought about you first, because I was thinking only as a Witcher." He took a deep breath, drained by his confession and the thought of what could happen next. Geralt looked up at the stars, repeating all the constellations he could think of in his head as he tried to ignore the cold breath of dread breathing down his neck. "I didn't think about those I was leaving behind and... I made you doubt that I loved you, Yen."

Still looking up at the sky, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. The Sorceress' hand was burning into his chest, but he didn't know if she'd accept the gift he offered. She was watching him closely, biting her lip, and he knew that his sense of dread hadn't gone unnoticed. The stare of death would have more welcoming than the possibility of rejection that cast its dark shadow over all that Geralt could see. No matter which way he thought his story would go, there had always been the same destination. Without her, he'd never reach it. He didn't want to let go.

"Nor do I, Geralt. I never could." He felt his heartbeat quicken, beating against her hand. Yennefer's lips were upturned in a sweet smile that made her eyes glow warmly, the signature her sincerity. Genuine affection, Geralt had lost hoped he'd ever witness it again. "We are both fools to have ever let this happen, doubt should never come between us," she said softly. Yennefer's hand gripped his shirt pulling him in, and the Witcher obeyed without hesitation. Her proximity made him weak; the closeness of her skin, the intoxicating smell of her body and perfume, the feeling of her breath stroking his skin, the melody of her heart singing him to paradise. He would have sacrificed a thousand lifetimes to enhance his senses for even a second so he could experience what it was like to be in heaven. To sense it all around him. "No matter what happens between us, Geralt, wherever the future may lead us, doubt will never be a part of it. I shan't let it."

He couldn't be sure who'd leaned in first and he didn't care to know. They kissed softly, calmly sealing the moment and closing their eyes to hold it in memory, every feeling and sensation. However long it lasted, it was over too soon. Geralt rested his forehead against hers, the pair exchanging smiles that the rest of the world would forever go without seeing. They were in their own little world, with only the stars as witnesses. This was home, he knew it in his bones. There was nowhere else for him outside this place and he would fight the gods should they try to part him from it.

"I love you, Yen."

"I know, Geralt...I know."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Another ('mini' asasdasfs) fic done! Struggled with this a little but really enjoyed the challenge (I think this sort of angst is where I really struggle because what is emotion, you know!?) and the prompt, so thank you Yenna/Bel :)
> 
> Hopefully, there will be a Realms within a few days, love you Xx


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